


Thread of the Fox

by LadylikeFoxes



Series: Tracking The Wolf [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-ish, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Fluff & Angst, M/M, Multi-POV, Plot Hints & Exposition, Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tumblr Prompts, and other little stuff, etc - Freeform, extra tidbits from Tracking the Wolf, fluff & smut, non-canon, prompts, spoilers for Trespasser dlc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadylikeFoxes/pseuds/LadylikeFoxes
Summary: Additional, (often Tumblr-Prompt Inspired) Drabble for Tracking the Wolf.
    
  
Multiple POVs, Instead of Strictly Eliana/Halesta & Solas.
Lots of Extra Fluff 'N' Stuff, Angst, Smut (of course), as well as
Further Plot Exploration and Exposition!
 

      ❤ ❤Happy Holidays/Saturnalia/Yule/Etc.!!!❤ ❤
→→Ch. 4: Satinalia (Pt. 1)←←





	1. Cheiloproclitic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> ** Cheiloproclitic.**  
>  _Adjective_  
>  **Having an erotic attraction to a person's lips**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

He was mesmerized by way her dusky, rouge lips wrapped around each word, the fluid motion of pursing and parting, kissing the air as she spoke. With his eyes, Solas traced the curving bow of the upper, the full, wetted pillow of the lower—drawn to the strangely enticing crease in the center, barely visible beneath the gold ink of her Vallaslin. 

Halesta's mouth had become a fixation for him, as of late: the fleeting pouts as she listened to unpleasant reports; her habit of soft, distracted nibbling on her lower lip while deep in thought; the lovely way the corners tucked, in amusement or pleasure, allowing him the sight of the rarely-witnessed and singular dimple that appeared in her right cheek. He wanted to feel her shape her words (by Mythal, _**any** words_ ) against his mouth, his skin, beneath his fingertips. Her tongue flicked against the back of her teeth....  
  
"Solas? Have you heard anything I’ve said?"  
  
His attention was drawn back at her voice, resounding faintly with warm laughter, calling his name. He met her curious gaze as she watched him from alongside, seated cross-legged on his divan and turned to face him. Halesta had tilted her head to the side with bemused affection, and her brows rose in query. Solas looked again at the smile playing across her blush silk mouth, and he felt himself grin wolfishly in return. He leaned forward, grasping her chin delicately as he bowed his head.  
  
“To be candid, Vhenan…”  
His voice heady and low, he guided her lips to his own.  
**_“Not a word.”_**

 

 


	2. Quidnunc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> ** Quidnunc**  
>  _Noun._  
>  **A nosy person, a busybody; one who always has to know what is going on**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

She had to admit to herself: it had been easier to do her job _before_ she had joined Halie’s Inquisition. Even with her Vallaslin to draw attention, Laleal had still been “ _just an Elf”_ to any Shemlen, and drew even less concern from other Elves. No effort ever had been necessary in order to go unnoticed; gathering intelligence had been a simple matter standing within earshot of any gossips. Here, though?   
Skyhold held more than its fair share of gossips, but, for every tongue wagging, there was triple the eyes to watch and ears to listen. Between the agents, double agents, and countless Orlesian-, Ferelden-, and Antivan spies (as well as, at least, one Qunari)…. It gave Laleal a headache to think about how carefully and undeniably she was now watched—not merely as the second Dalish Elf to join the Inquisitor’s coterie, but also as an original member of the now-famed Clan Lavellan.   
The most frustrating of all, though, was the Inquisition’s own Spymaster: the infamous Nightingale. The woman had no qualms sending her agents to scour Laleal’s quarters whenever left empty. Every book and note, every trunk and rucksack—even the bed sheets! Nothing Laleal had been provided or brought was spared signs of Leliana’s fine-toothed comb. Lal was aware that the traces of the Scouts’ presence were left purposefully; a small sign of respect in not hiding the scrutiny she was under. Considering the Nightingale had been the Left Hand of the Divine, it would be no difficulty for her people to leave the room without a trace of inspection. She considered herself lucky, thanking the Creators that she wasn’t required to send reports or receive orders….   
For now, all that was required of Laleal was to protect Halesta—and _wait_.


	3. Duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> ** Duende.**  
>  _Noun._  
>  **The ability to attract others through personal magnetism and charm.**
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

With her long, bronzed limbs and watchful amber eyes, she looked like a Hart in mid-sprint even as she stood still. When back with the Clan, Halesta had told him, Laleal had been a Crafter—though those days were long gone now.  
There was more of a enigmatic air about her than any Craftswoman should have: a mischievous smile, always relaxed in her body language, an easy way with words and conversation that seemed to draw one in. She had an eager, honeyed voice, a bright and pleasant laugh, and her movements and gestures were difficult not to follow with the eyes.  
Everything about her was inviting— decidedly un-Dalish, which Solas found suspicious. He recalled Halesta’s memories of Laleal, noting the sharp glint in her eye that hadn’t been present in her Fade-self. Her hair had been bluntly cut to barely whisper against her collarbones, and he studied the way she glanced up through her lashes at anyone she spoke to. It occurred to him…this charisma was not a Dalish trait.  
Laleal had _learned_ this magnetism, this strange and powerful enchantment—the smooth appeal only those of a certain avocation might teach.  
She was, Solas realized (and, the irony was not lost on him) a “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”.


	4. Satinalia (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **❤ ❤ ❤ Happy Holidays/Saturnalia/Yule/Etc.!!! ❤ ❤ ❤**  
>  This is my first ever holiday blurb, so bear with me. Hopefully   
> there will be 3 parts, but if I only make it a rough 2-parter, please forgive me?!   
>  **Thank you so much for reading and for your support and for everything, ily all! ❤**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
>
>> **Satinalia**  
>> 
>> _Once dedicated to the Old Goddess of Freedom, Zazikel—but now attributed more to the second moon, Satina—this holiday is accompanied by wild celebration, the wearing of masks, and naming the town fool as ruler for a day. In Antiva, Satinalia lasts for a week or more, while a week of fasting follows. In more pious areas, large feasts and the giving of gifts mark the holiday. Satinalia is celebrated at the beginning of Umbralis._
>> 
>> **–Excerpted from _Dragon Age: The World of Thedas—Vol. 1_**
> 
> * * *

   
           Elie woke just after sunrise, feeling better than she had in weeks. She smoothly slipped from the warmth of the cot, untangling her limbs from her still-sleeping Apostate’s. She chuckled quietly lacing a passing kiss on Dorian’s forehead, which now rested against one of Solas’s feet ( _Dor will be **appalled**!_ ), before stepping out onto the Catwalk balcony. The early morning air was delicious, sharp and chilly; the faint smell of Prophet’s Laurel berries and evergreen trees—hauled up from the mountain passes—reminded Halesta that Satinalia had arrived.

            _Fendhis, and all I have for Solas are those odd rune-stones….  
_

She pursed her lips, as she crossed the walkway towards the stairs down from Cullen’s office. She knew he’d be thrilled with the stones—they were certainly unlike anything she had seen before—but it didn’t feel quite like a gift for one’s…well, _Vhenan_. She patted down the stairs two at a time in her bare feet, forgetting to mind she wore no more than her leggings and an oversized, thin men’s sark. Da’assan quietly whinnied at the sight of her, happily tossing her mane; causing Master Dennet to murmur a baffled remark on the mare's excellent manners.  
  
“Even polite enough to mind her volume in the early hours,” His tone was soft, though almost unsettled, “You sure she’s actually a horse?”

“As long as she’s not really Morrigan, herself,” Eliana whispered back, her conspiratorial smirk receiving a knowing smile in return, “I don’t truly care what she is.”

Da’assan calmly let Elie check all four shoes—Dennet had long-since learned not to take offense to the Inquisitor’s regular goings-over her mount—before accepting the sugar cube treat. Eliana combed the horse, first body and then mane, before weaving a few small plaits into the long, cream strands.  
Then it occurred to her—She pulled out the dagger she kept in the corded sheath around her neck, and trimmed a small lock of Da’assan’s mane from in front of the horse’s eyes. Elie smiled at her Little Arrow’s lack of reaction and kissed the soft muzzle as she proffered another sugar cube in gratitude.  
  
With a small thrill and shiver, she waved to Da’assan and the Horse-Master, and danced off to her quarters as swift as her small feet could carry. She had gifts to wrap.

* * *

  
             Eliana had slipped away while he slept, but on his desk, Solas found a small, fragile plate. Sitting atop was a fresh, steaming cup of tea, a small dish of honey, a ramekin of cream, and a tiny (almost delicate) pewter spoon. There was also a cup of strong, Antivan coffee—presumably for Dorian—with carefully stacked cubes of sugar; a sprig of Prophet’s Laurel and lilac sat between the two cups, tied with coarse twine and in front of a small, hastily-scribbled, tented note. He smiled to himself slightly, almost shaking his head in amusement at her enthusiasm for these Human Feast days.

 

>             **_On’ Satinalia_ , _ma’ Lath’en!  
>  __—H./E._**

  
“Is that coffee?” He heard Dorian groan behind him as the Tevene sat up, “I take it she’s feeling better.”  
  
“Mm, and you are feeling worse,” Solas cocked a brow as he handed the tray to the Altus, fighting the smirk that attempted to curl the corner of his lips.  
  
“Aren’t you observant? Oh, that little Lamb!” Dorian attempted a sneer, but his expression softened at sight of the note, “She is truly our Savior—Mm, mine, anyway.”

The Inquisitor’s dearest friend coolly glanced sidelong at the Apostate; fluttering his dark lashes over the rim of his demitasse in a faux-demure gaze as he sipped. Solas rolled his eyes, crossing a single arm to support the other, lifting his tea to his lips.

“What is it, Dorian,” Flatly, purposefully sounding more exasperated than he was.

 “Did you bother to get her a present?” The Tevene quirked a brow, a smile audible though his mouth was hidden, “Or are you, as Sera so tactful put it, ‘ _Too_ _Elfy for a good Shem tradition_ ’?”  
  
            _Sera. Of course._

“I am not above any tradition, Human or otherwise,” the Apostate’s tone rather tart at the mention of the Rogue, “When it promotes a sense of peace and camaraderie.”  
  
“Mm. So,” Dorian dipped his chin, lowering his cup with a furtive, hungry expression, “What _did_ you get our Fearless Leader?”

“If I were to tell you,” His face vacant, Solas allowed only his eyebrows to rise; giving a look of near-disdain to the man he had grown to consider a friend, “It would rather lessen the spirit of the gesture, one’s gift to another, would it not?”

“Psshh! Well, _I_ got her a _stunning_ antique hand-mirror,” the Tevene rolled his eyes as he flapped his hand, dismissively, “Polished glass in a gold frame, engraved with sparrows and deer, in the most _charming_ little scene on the reverse.” 

“Yes, I am sure she will have much use for it while travelling,” the Apostate pursed his lips, smugly facetious, “Or whilst fighting Corypheus and Red Templars.”  
  
The look Dorian gave him managed to genuinely stir a coil of fear in Solas’s stomach. The man looked at him as if he did not know Halesta at _all_.  
  
“My friend, you **_do_** know—” The Altus stared, deadly serious, “She _does_ enjoy pretty items. Or have you missed her constant collecting of lovely and delicate little trinkets—even broken bits—on our outings?”

“Of course I have. As a Dalish elf, she is not accustomed to such extravagance,“ Solas found himself genuinely confused, “She does not have _your_ need to _possess_ the beautiful, to _own_ —”  
  
  
He faltered. Not only had he been unnecessarily offensive to his friend, but he also realized he had merely been making assumptions about her personality…. What if—what if she _did_ enjoy magnificence and luxury; _did_ she relish claiming beauty, rather than appreciating it? Had he been so inattentive?

“Solas,” Dorian’s voice was surprisingly warm and comforting, redirecting his attention…  
  
“For Elie, it’s not a matter of _owning_ these things. She merely doesn’t want them discarded or forgotten, even if they are broken bits and pieces. I think, some part of her is trying to _save_ the beauty from disregard. She is bringing them into the light, where they can be treasured and admired—even if only by her.”

            ** _Oh._**  
  
  
Dorian laughed light-heartedly…. Apparently, the look on Solas’s face had said it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vhenan: (my) Heart  
> On’ Satinalia: ***** Good/Merry Satinalia  
>  Ma’ Lath’en: My Loves  
> Shem: Quick/fast; **Shem as an abbreviation for Shemlen:** Derogatory slang for non-dalish, usually humans.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Note:** Elie is fully aware she is bastardizing the mixture of _On'_ [=Good/Merry)]  & the Common Tongue name for the Holiday. It's kind of a joke. ❤ Thankyou,ily.❤


End file.
